I am from all the melancholic women,
hanging on my walls in their strange dresses,
lying on the ground or crying in the rain.
I’m looking at them, they’re looking at me,
and the mirrors are sadistically smiling.

I am from the Billa supermarket, Maya dog with all her mother’s love,
little dead puppies in the hole beside the road, the scary stories about the man who killed them.
I’m from the unfinished buildings, spying always,
and all the happiness and shame about the skateboarding.

I am from all the food we eat or puke,
Even from the days with no food,
or the cakes for birthdays which I’ve always hated
and the bet with the chicken bone.

I am from all my parents’ advice,
almost never followed, from the “Smarty!”
And the threats for never seeing Bilyana anymore,
and all the guilty looks.

I am from all my friends’ hearts,
Nietzsche, Orwell may be, Nwarth,
who I’ll forever remember as he’s smiling,
Vassil Levski, whose portrait hangs above my bed.
And is giving me hope for the future.
I am from Bulgaria on three seas.